“I’d better start canvassing for Lucceius,” said Crassus as Caesar removed himself from his perch.
“Don’t spend too much, Marcus, that horse won’t gallop. Magnus has been bribing heavily for two months, but after Afranius no one will look at his men. Magnus isn’t a politician, he never makes the right moves at the right time. Labienius ought to have been where he put Flavius, and Lucceius ought to have been his first attempt to secure a tame consul.” A cheerful pat for Crassus’s naked pate, and Caesar was off. “It will be Bibulus and I for sure.”
A prediction the Centuries confirmed five days before the Ides of Quinctilis: Caesar swept into the senior consulship by carrying literally every Century; Bibulus had to wait much longer, as the contest for the junior post was a close one. The praetors were disappointing for the triumvirs, though they could be sure of the support of Saturninus’s nephew after the trial of Gaius Rabirius, and none other than Quintus Fufius Calenus was making overtures, as his debts were beginning to embarrass him badly. The new College of Tribunes of the Plebs was a difficulty, for Metellus Scipio had decided to stand, which gave the boni no less than four staunch allies—Metellus Scipio, Quintus Ancharius, Gnaeus Domitius Calvinus and Gaius Fannius. On the brighter side, the triumvirs definitely had Publius Vatinius and Gaius Alfius Flavus. Two good strong tribunes of the plebs would be enough.
*
There then occurred the long and exasperating wait for the New Year, not helped by the fact that Pompey had to lie low while Cato and Bibulus strutted, promising everyone who was prepared to listen that Caesar would get nothing done. Their opposition had become public knowledge through every Class of citizen, though few below the First Class understood exactly what was happening. Distant political thunder rumbled, was all.
Unruffled, it seemed, Caesar attended the House on all meeting days as senior consul-elect to give his opinion about very little; otherwise his time was devoted almost exclusively to drafting a new land bill for Pompey’s veterans. In November he could see no reason why it should be a secret any longer—let the rump wonder what he and Pompey were to each other, it was time to apply a small amount of pressure. So in December he sent Balbus to see Cicero, his purpose to enlist Cicero’s support for the land bill. If apprising Cicero what was in the wind didn’t send the news far and wide, nothing would.
Uncle Mamercus died, a personal sorrow for Caesar and the cause of a vacancy in the College of Pontifices.
“Which,” said Caesar to Crassus after the funeral, “can be of some use to us. I hear Lentulus Spinther desperately wants to be a pontifex.”
“And might become one if he’s prepared to be a good boy?”
“Precisely. He’s got clout, he’ll be consul sooner or later, and Nearer Spain lacks a governor. I hear he’s smarting that he didn’t get a province after his praetorship, so we might be able to help him into Nearer Spain on New Year’s Day. Especially if he’s a pontifex by then.”
“How will you do it, Caesar? There’s a big list of hopefuls.”
“Rig the lots, of course. I’m surprised you asked. This is where being a triumvirate comes in very handy. Cornelia, Fabia, Velina, Clustumina, Teretina—five tribes already without moving out of our own ranks. Of course Spinther will have to wait until after the land bill is passed before he can go to his province, but I don’t think he’ll object to that. The poor fellow is still playing second leads, the boni sniff with contempt because they’re riding for a fall. It doesn’t pay to overlook important men you might need. But they’ve overlooked Spinther, more fool they.”
“I saw Celer in the Forum yesterday,” said Crassus, huffing contentedly, “and I thought he looked shockingly ill.”
That provoked a laugh from Caesar. “It’s not physical, Marcus. His little Nola of a wife has opened every gate she owns as wide as she can for Catullus, the poet fellow from Verona. He, by the way, seems to be flirting with the boni. I have it on good evidence that he invented the story of Publius Servilius’s vineyard for Bibulus. That makes sense, Bibulus being permanently fused to the cobbles of the city of Rome. It takes a rustic to know all about cattle and vines.”
“So Clodia’s in love at last.”
“Badly enough to worry Celer!”
“He’d do best to terminate Pomptinus and go to his province early. For a Military Man, Pomptinus hasn’t acquitted himself very well in Further Gaul.”
“Unfortunately Celer loves his wife, Marcus, so he doesn’t want to go to his province at all.”
“They deserve each other” was Crassus’s verdict.
2
If anyone thought it significant that Caesar chose to ask Pompey to act as his augur during the night watch at the auguraculum on the Capitol before New Year’s Day dawned, no one was publicly heard to comment. From the middle dark hour until the first light pearled the eastern sky, Caesar and Pompey in their scarlet-and-purple-striped togas stood together but back to back, eyes fixed upon the heavens. Caesar’s luck that the New Year was four months in front of the seasonal year, for it meant that the shooting stars in the constellation Perseus were still tracing their dribbling sparkles down the black vault; of omens and auspices there were many, including a flash of lightning in a cloud off to the left. By rights Bibulus and his augural helper ought to have been present too, but even in that Bibulus took care to demonstrate that he would not co-operate with Caesar. Instead he took the auspices at his home—quite correct, yet not usual.
After which the senior consul and his friend repaired to their respective houses, there to don the day’s garments. For Pompey, triumphal regalia, this now being permitted him on all festive occasions rather than merely at the games; for Caesar, a newly woven and very white toga praetexta, its border not Tyrian purple but the same ordinary purple it had been in the early days of the Republic, when the Julii had been as prominent as they now were again five hundred years later. For Pompey it had to be a gold senatorial ring, but for Caesar the ring was iron, as it had been for the Julii in the old days. He wore his crown of oak leaves, and the scarlet-and-purple-striped tunic of the Pontifex Maximus.
No pleasure in walking up the Clivus Capitolinus side by side with Bibulus, who never stopped muttering under his breath that Caesar would get nothing done, that if he died for it he would see Caesar’s consulship a milestone for inactivity and mundanity. No pleasure either in having to seat himself on his ivory chair with Bibulus alongside while the crowd of senators and knights, family and friends hailed them and praised them. Caesar’s luck that his flawless white bull went consenting to the sacrifice, while Bibulus’s bull fell clumsily, tried to get to its feet and splattered the junior consul’s toga with blood. A bad omen.
In the temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus afterward it was Caesar as senior consul who called the Senate into session, Caesar as senior consul who fixed the feriae Latinae, and Caesar as senior consul who cast the lots for the praetors’ provinces. No surprise perhaps that Lentulus Spinther received Nearer Spain.
“There are some other changes,” the senior consul said in his normal deep voice, as the cella where the statue of Jupiter Optimus Maximus stood (facing to the east) was acoustically good enough for any kind of voice to carry. “This year I will return to the custom practised at the beginning of the Republic, and order my lictors to follow me rather than precede me during the months when I do not possess the fasces.”
A murmur of approval went up, transformed into a gasp of shocked disapproval when Bibulus said, snarling, “Do what you want, Caesar, I don’t care! Just don’t expect me to reciprocate!”
“I don’t, Marcus Calpurnius!” laughed Caesar, thus throwing the discourtesy of Bibulus’s use of his cognomen into prominence.
“Anything else?” Bibulus asked, hating his lack of height.
“Not directly concerning you, Marcus Calpurnius. I have had a very long career in this House, both Senate and service to Jupiter Optimus Maximus, in whose house this House is meeting at this very moment. As flamen Dialis I joined
it in my sixteenth year, then after a gap of less than two years I returned to it because I won the corona civica. Do you remember those months before Mitylene, Marcus Calpurnius? You were there too, though you didn’t win a corona civica. Now at forty years of age I am senior consul. Which gives me a total of over twenty-three years as a member of the Senate of Rome.”
His tones became brisk and businesslike. “Throughout those twenty-three years, Conscript Fathers, I have seen some changes for the better in senatorial procedure, particularly the habit we now have of a permanent verbatim record of our proceedings. Not all of us make use of these records, but certainly I do, and so do other serious politicians. However, they disappear into the archives. I have also known occasions upon which they bore little resemblance to what was actually said.”
He stopped to look into the serried rows of faces; no one bothered with special wooden tiers for Jupiter Optimus Maximus on New Year’s Day because the meeting was always a short one, comments confined to the senior consul.
“Consider too the People. Most of our meetings are held with doors wide open, enabling a small number of interested persons gathered outside to listen to us. What happens is inevitable. He who hears best relays what he has heard to those who can’t hear, and as the ripple spreads outward on the Forum pond its accuracy declines. Annoying for the People, but also annoying for us.
“I now ask you to make two amendments to our records of the proceedings of this House. The first covers both kinds of session, open doors or closed doors. Namely that the scribes transpose their notes to paper, that both consuls and all praetors—if present at the meeting concerned, of course—peruse the written record, then sign it as correct. The second covers only those sessions held with open doors. Namely that the record of the proceedings be posted at a special bulletin area in the Forum Romanum, sheltered from inclement weather. My reasons are founded in concern for all of us, no matter which side of the political or factional fence we might happen to graze. It is as necessary for Marcus Calpurnius as it is for Gaius Julius. It is as necessary for Marcus Porcius as it is for Gnaeus Pompeius.”
“In fact,” said none other than Metellus Celer, “it is a very good idea, senior consul. I doubt I’ll back your laws, but I will back this, and I suggest the House look favorably upon the senior consul’s proposal.”
With the result that everyone present save Bibulus and Cato passed to the right when the division came. A little thing, yes, but the first thing, and it had succeeded.
“So did the banquet afterward,” said Caesar to his mother at the end of a very long day.
She was bursting with pride in him, naturally. All those years had been worth it. Here he was, seven months away from his forty-first birthday, and senior consul of the Senate and People of Rome. The Res Publica. The specter of debt had vanished when he came home from Further Spain with enough in his share to allow a settlement with his creditors which absolved him from future ruin. That dear little man Balbus had trotted from one office to another armed with buckets of papers and negotiated Caesar out of debt. How extraordinary. It had never occurred to Aurelia for a moment that Caesar wouldn’t have to pay back every last sestertius of years of accumulated compound interest, but Balbus knew how to strike a bargain.
There was nothing left over to ward off another attack of Caesar’s profligate spending, but at least he owed no money from past spending. And he did have a respectable income from the State, plus a wonderful house.
She rarely thought of her husband, dead for twenty-five years. Praetor, but never consul. That crown had gone in his generation to his older brother and to the other branch. Who could ever have known the danger in bending over to lace up a boot? Nor the shock of some messenger at the door thrusting a horrible little jar at her—his ashes. And she had not even known him dead. But perhaps if he had lived he would have equipped Caesar with brakes, though she had always been aware her son had none in his nature. Gaius Julius, dearly loved husband, our son is senior consul today, and he will make a mark for the Julii Caesares no other Julius Caesar ever has. And Sulla, what would Sulla have thought? The other man in her life, though they had come no closer to indiscretion than a kiss across a bowl of grapes. How I suffered for him, poor tormented man! I miss them both. Yet how good life has been to me. Two daughters well married, grandchildren, and this—this god for my son.
How lonely he is. Once I hoped that Gaius Matius in the other ground-floor apartment of my insula would be the friend and confidant he lacks. But Caesar moved on too far too fast. Will he always do that? Is there no one to whom he can turn as an equal? How I pray that one day he’ll find a true friend. Not in a wife, alas. We women don’t have the breadth of vision nor the experience of public life he needs in a true friend. Yet that slur on him about King Nicomedes has meant that he will admit no man as an intimate, he’s too aware of what people would say. In all these years, no other rumor. You’d think that would prove it. But the Forum always has a Bibulus in it. And he has Sulla there as a warning. No old age like Sulla’s for Caesar!
I understand at last that he’ll never marry Servilia. That he never would have at any time. She suffers, but she has Brutus to vent her frustrations upon. Poor Brutus. I wish Julia loved him, but she doesn’t. How can that marriage work? A thought which clicked a bead into place inside the abacus of her mind.
But all she said was “Did Bibulus attend the banquet?”
“Oh yes, he was there. So was Cato, so was Gaius Piso and the rest of the boni. But Jupiter Optimus Maximus is a big place, and they arranged themselves on couches as far from mine as they could. Cato’s dear friend Marcus Favonius was the center of the group, having got in as quaestor at last.” Caesar chuckled. “Cicero informed me that Favonius is now known around the Forum as Cato’s Ape, a delicious double pun. He apes Cato in every way he can, including going bare beneath his toga, but he’s also such a dullard that he shambles along like an ape. Nice, eh?”
“Apt, certainly. Did Cicero coin it?”
“I imagine so, but he was suffering from an attack of modesty today, probably due to the fact that Pompeius made him swear to be polite and friendly to me, and he hates it after Rabirius.”
“You sound desolate,” she said with some irony.
“I’d really rather have Cicero on my side, but somehow I can’t see that happening, Mater. So I’m prepared.”
“For what?”
“The day he decides to join his little faction to the boni.”
“Would he go that far? Pompeius Magnus wouldn’t like it.”
“I doubt he’d ever become an ardent member of the boni, they dislike his conceit as much as they dislike mine. But you know Cicero. He’s a grasshopper with an undisciplined tongue, if there is such an animal. Here, there, everywhere, and all the time busy talking himself into trouble. Witness Publius Clodius and the six inches. Terribly funny, but not to Clodius or Fulvia.”
“How will you deal with Cicero if he becomes an adversary?”
“Well, I haven’t told Publius Clodius, but I secured permission from the priestly Colleges to allow Clodius to become a plebeian.”
“Didn’t Celer object? He refused to let Clodius stand as a tribune of the plebs.”
“Correctly so. Celer is an excellent lawyer. But as to the actuality of Clodius’s status, he doesn’t care one way or the other. Why should he? The only object of Clodius’s nasty streak at the moment is Cicero, who has absolutely no clout with Celer or among the priestly colleges. It’s not frowned on for a patrician to want to become a plebeian. The tribunate of the plebs appeals to men with a streak of the demagogue in them, like Clodius.”
“Why haven’t you told Clodius you’ve secured permission?”
“I’m not sure I ever will. He’s unstable. However, if I have to deal with Cicero, I’ll slip Clodius’s leash.” Caesar yawned and stretched. “Oh, I’m tired! Is Julia here?”
“No, she’s at a girls’ dinner party, and as it’s being held at Servilia’s, I said she
could stay the night. Girls of that age can spend days talking and giggling.”
“She’s seventeen on the Nones. Oh, Mater, how times flies! Her mother has been dead for ten years.”
“But not forgotten,” Aurelia said gruffly.
“No, never that.”
A silence fell, peaceful and warm. With no money troubles to worry her, Aurelia was a pleasure, reflected her son.
Suddenly she coughed, looked at him with a peculiar gleam in her eyes. “Caesar, the other day I had need to go to Julia’s room to look among her clothes. At seventeen, birthday presents should be clothes. You can give her jewelry—I suggest earrings and necklace in plain gold. But I’ll give her clothes. I know she ought to be weaving the fabric and making them herself—I did at her age—but unfortunately she’s bookish, she’d rather read than weave. I gave up trying to make her weave years ago, it wasn’t worth the energy. What she produced was disgraceful.”
“Mater, where are you going? I really don’t give a fig what Julia does provided it isn’t beneath a Julia.”
In answer Aurelia got up. “Wait here,” she ordered, and left Caesar’s study.
He could hear her mount the stairs to the upper storey, then nothing, then the sound of her footsteps descending again. In she came, both hands behind her back. Highly amused, Caesar tried to stare her out of countenance without success. Then she whipped her hands around and put something on his desk.
Fascinated, he found himself looking at a little bust of none other than Pompey. This one was considerably better made than the ones he had seen in the markets, but it was still mass-produced in that it was of plaster cast in a mold; the likeness was a more speaking one, and the paint quite delicately applied.
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